


Tongues and Teeth

by heartachesbythenumber



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Horror, Kidnapping, Multi, Sexual Assault, Slow Burn, Stalking, Suicide, Torture, i take psychic damage every time i write the chat, im gonna try to keep strade in character, possible ooc, some humour but don't rely on it, there is a reason he'll be going to all this effort and that reason boils down to "it's fun"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-01-27 11:02:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21391072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartachesbythenumber/pseuds/heartachesbythenumber
Summary: Strade is the worst sugar daddy ever.
Relationships: OC/Strade, Protagonist/Strade (Boyfriend to Death), Ren/Strade (Boyfriend to Death)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone! welcome to my own personal nightmare, AKA me working through trauma via smut, angst and catharsis.
> 
> i want to ask everyone to please mind the tags. this is gonna get pretty dark, so i'll be updating those tags as applicable, but i tried to give an estimate for now of what's to come. above all, be safe and be good to yourselves.
> 
> also, i want to personally apologize for the chat in this fic. believe me, i hate it, too.

The stream would start at exactly 1 AM.

**RIPME**: i mean yea its been busy lately, but ill get trhough it  
**camaraJM**: idk but he didn’t say anything to me  
**69cumslut69**: you think he’s finally gonna off the fucking furry  
**KillerxQueen**: What do you do

A message announcing the stream was posted nearly an entire day in advance. It was a rare sight, and it garnered appropriate attention.

**iammeisheissheis**: fuck off cass  
**RIPME**: program  
**B1GDADDYS**: GOD I hope so  
**fuckwatt**: He’s a programer.  
**RIPME**: yea

There were around a thousand of them, many of which tuned in a few hours early. He wasn’t exactly known for his punctuality, but it wasn’t his fault; people were hard to work with, after all. Most viewers were understanding. A lot of them kept the webpage open in another tab in case of any spontaneous shows.

**woundfucker88**: did I miss it?  
**RIPME**: i work for a big company tho so i work a lot of over time  
**69cumslut69**: corporate scum  
**camaraJM**: same

But this one had been announced, and that usually meant something big was happening.

**JohhnyDanger**: I’m still thinking about that last one I’m not fucking ready for this week’s. he was special  
**RIPME**: wound no you’re good  
**KillerxQueen**: That’s pretty cool man, I used to program in highschool but Inever had the patience for it  
**69cumslut69**: eat SHIT  
**RIPME**: oh yea!  
**69cumslut69**: i can say what i want

He made sure to come back from the bar early. It always took a bit to set up the tripod, and he wanted it to be special. No need to keep them waiting.

When the feed started, the masked man took up the entire shot.

“Hiya! Welcome back to the shop, everyone!” Even with his face covered, you could hear the grin in his voice.

**KillerxQueen**: Christ he’s actually on time  
**lieblingg**: FUCK MY ASS DADDY  
**lieblingg**: KIDNAP ME  
**woundfucker88**: hello!  
**69cumslut69**: wtf is this  
**lieblingg**: 1628 THIRD STREET

His eyes were wide, bright and focused on something behind the camera. “Wow! What a turnout! Is everyone excited?”

**RIPME**: ffs i was getting a drink  
**lieblingg**: MY LOCKS DONT WORK

He settles into a chair and angles the camera down with him, as if he’s the show for tonight. “Well, let’s get straight to it! I wanted to give you a little heads up. Things are gonna be a little… different for a while.”

**asfkjfsah**: TAKE OFF THE FUCKING MASK

“See, we’ve got a special request for someone’s special _someone_! Call it an early Valentine’s Day gift.”

**69cumslut69**: im fucking triggered  
**lieblingg**: PLEASE  
**B1GDADDYS**: It’s fuckking november

He chuckles. “Oh, you’re right! Then in the spirit of giving, I’ve decided to indulge them! Plus, they already put their money where their mouth is. _Bahah!_”

**KillerxQueen**: Anyone else getting shitty fps  
**fuckwatt**: Since when does he take comissions?  
**woundfucker88**: ooh! this sounds fun  
**asfkjfsah**: YOURE FUCKING DEAD, DO YOU HEAR ME? I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. I ALREADY CONTACTED THE AUTHORITYS BUT IM COMING TO RIP YOUR FUCKING THROAT OUT MY GODDAM SELF

“So, stay tuned! I know it might be a little slower than you’re used to…”

**RIPME**: dae see that?  
**MAGGOTFLY**: I’m fucking late  
**woundfucker88**: what

“…but it’ll be worth it. Promise!”

**camaraJM**: something moved.Behind him  
**MAGGOTFLY**: What did I miss?  
**asfkjfsah**: YOU KILLED MY FUCKING BROTHER  
**camaraJM**: watch hes gonna start selling feet pics xD

He sat there for a while, just reading chat as it flicked by. In the silence, something groaned quietly behind him.

**KillerxQueen**: BUFFERING  
**KillerxQueen**: FUCK  
**JohhnyDanger**: Wait. Is this it?  
**asfkjfsah**: ANWSER ME YOU SPINELESS CUNT

He finally broke the silence with a full belly laugh. “_Is this it?_ Of course not! I wouldn’t do that to you!” His eyebrows scrunched together as if hurt at the very thought. Then he stood. He pulled his chair out of the shot, revealing a pair of bound feet barely sticking into the frame.

“I picked something up for ya on the way home!”

**69cumslut69**: FEET  
**KillerxQueen**: Thank GOD videos back

A low moan gave way to a shrill screech as they were dragged towards the camera, a mess of greasy locks and dripping tears.

**69cumslut69**: FEET FEET  
**camaraJM**: TOLD YOU LMFAO  
**KillerxQueen**: Did I miss anything

A hand yanked them up by the hair, forcing them to look into the camera lens, and they freeze. Tears are running down their cheeks, soaking through the gag in their mouth. Their eyes flit between the lens and something offscreen.

**RIPME**: OOH  
**woundfucker88**: oh they’re cute!!  
**69cumslut69**: WELCOME TO THE FUCKHOUSE LOSER  
**B1GDADDYS**: JESUS CHrist another crybaby?

His hand ripped the gag out, but their mouth hung open all the same.

“Awh… No need to be shy! Come on. Say hi!”

**fuckwatt**: No way this cunt lasts  
**JohhnyDanger**: Get your popcorn ready.

He chuckles heartily. “Suit yourself. This night’s dedicated to you all! So! Any requests?”

When they finally opened their mouth, they started screaming and never stopped.


	2. The Customer is Always an Asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> customer service blows
> 
> i'm trying to use more free indirect discourse so i hope it doesn't read too awkwardly/confusing. lemme know

The Wet Hen pub was overflowing with families and laughter that night. It was the kind of noise that shoved its way into every nook and cranny, bouncing off walls and seeping into the laminate.

It was someone’s birthday. (It was always someone’s birthday.) The girls were being corralled just behind the kitchen doors. Like every chain, they had their own butchered version of “Happy Birthday,” torn apart and glued back together with some particularly imperfect rhymes.

As was tradition, Makwa was hiding in the bathrooms. She’d shut herself in one of the stalls and sat on the toilet’s tank, resting her knee. It hadn’t been the same since she messed it up during soccer practice in high school. Hill didn’t like her wearing her brace to work. Of course, she never said a word about it; she couldn’t, unless she wanted HR up her ass. But she always treated Makwa differently when she wore it.

She didn’t trust the seats enough to actually sit on them, especially when it was her turn to clean. She flicked through her phone, waiting. It wasn’t long before the girls started singing and, muffled or not, someone smarter than her could probably pick out the dozen or so different keys they switched between. Whether you wanted to or not, you could hear the Wet Hen girls “singing” from the outskirts of town. It was the one thing they didn’t fake.

When the restroom door opened, Makwa held her breath. Footsteps shuffled on the tile—they didn’t sound like heels, boots maybe?—and stopped at the sinks. The taps were turned on, and the rush of water just barely covered the person’s sniffling. They muttered to themselves, tone hush but fervent, before shutting the water off. For a moment, all she heard was clapping and laughter from the restaurant proper. Then there was a soft sigh and, finally, they left. Makwa knew she should do the same, although there wasn’t any use in keeping up appearances anymore; Hill had definitely noticed her repeated absences during “birthday roundups.” One more minute of peace couldn’t hurt.

Hill wasn’t waiting outside the bathroom door for her, surprisingly.

“…the same guy as last time.”

“And you passed him off to someone else last time, too.”

But she was close, and she was using that even, soft tone of hers. That tone meant trouble, and trouble meant Makwa should keep walking.

“He’s creepy! And he’s, like, _twice_ my age.”

Hill had pulled the youngest waitress aside to have one of her not-so-private discussions. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You can’t pick and choose your tables. If I let you switch now, would that be fair to everyone else?”

The girl bit her lip. She was clearly ready to back off. Hill saw it, too, judging by the sickly sweet smile on her face.

_Just go already._

“You know the rules, Grace. You signed off on them.”

“I’ll take it,” Makwa said.

_Stupid._

Hill turned to her, the smile melting off her face like wax. “Where have you been?”

“Just give me the table. I’m not doing anything right now, anyway.”

Grace’s shoulders relaxed instantly. “Are you sure?”

“Which table?”

“Twelve.”

Makwa nodded quickly before moving away, avoiding Hill’s eyes even as they burned a hole in her back. She gave herself a quick moment to scan the restaurant through the backroom door’s little window—a few new faces since she’d ducked away, all families—and headed back into the fray.

The Wet Hen’s décor could be best described as… overstimulating, at best. Imagine the tackiest southern belle you can think of. Now imagine her meemaw’s life exploding onto barn walls in a shower of sweet tea, cow skulls and ten-gallon hats. The paneled walls were covered in yellowed photographs and replica guns. There was even a tractor jutting out of one wall, as if someone was _that_ desperate to get their hands on some over-sauced wings. It was a clusterfuck of colours and smells, and yet it was packed every Friday night.

“What dressing would you like with that?”

Makwa had found the table without any trouble. The man in question brought his wife and kid in, too, and despite his audience, it was immediately clear why Grace had made such a fuss.

“Balsamic, please.”

She felt his eyes on her.

She turned to the kid next. “And yourself?”

Makwa was painfully aware of the pub’s sorry excuse for a uniform—flannel and jean shorts.

“He’ll just have the chicken fingers.”

Makwa and her big mouth. She shouldn’t have cared.

“All right…”

She’d deliberately left him for last. Makwa didn’t ask him what he wanted, simply made eye contact (even if it made her spine crawl) and waited.

“Steak. Rare.”

Why did she always do this?

“And for a side?” She stared down at her notepad, moving slow, as if “steak” was taking all of her mental faculties to spell.

“What happened to the other girl?” He was smiling now. “She took our drink order!”

“I’ll get them. Your side?”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Maybe I’ll like you better,” he chuckled.

Makwa was still writing, waiting, and could his wife not _see_ the look on his face? Or was she trying to ignore it, too?

“Just fries is fine.”

_Finally_. “Is that all?”

The moment his wife started nodding, Makwa was off. She felt eyes on her the whole way, and didn’t stop until she was safe in the backroom. Grace was there, looking for all the world like a scolded dog, a tray of drinks held in her shaking hands. Makwa only glanced at her before stopping at one of the countertops. The order was crumpled in her hands. She’d have to write a new ticket.

She cast quick glances over her shoulder as the girl approached. “You- you didn’t need to do that, you know. I mean, thanks, but you… I didn’t mean to make you feel like you _had_ to.”

“It’s fine.” The kid looked so relieved, and that made her look even younger. Makwa swore she must’ve lied about her age to get hired, but Hill probably didn’t care either way.

Grace was peering over her shoulder at the crumpled note.

_… garden, balsamic_   
_kids tenders_   
_steakkk fuckk fuck you ff fries_

“Did he, uh… do anything?”

Makwa shoved the paper into her pocket. “It was fine.” She hung the new ticket up with the rest, skin itching as Grace followed her. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

Grace just stared. “Ms. Hill said–”

“Don’t worry about her. We’ve got your back here.”

The girl’s smile almost made this whole ordeal worth it. “_Oh!_ Right, these are, um…” She looked down at the drinks, and Makwa took them without a word.

The man was smiling at her return, his eyes focused nowhere near her face.

_Almost._

* * *

The last hours of her shift flew by. The creep’s family had finished eating a while ago, but Hill wouldn’t call it loitering yet. They were talking money, which meant their kid had resorted to running toy cars off any ramp-shaped surface in the restaurant, apparently hellbent on getting in everyone’s way.

The man had just ordered his fifth beer—the light ones, but what was the point if he drank so many?—and the inappropriate comments were only increasing. His wife gave her sympathetic looks, but didn’t acknowledge it otherwise. Makwa was starting to hate them both equally. When she trudged back, drink in tow, the kid was nowhere to be seen. He was someone else’s problem for now.

She had her eyes fixed on the table as she walked, counting the minutes till her shift ended—when her legs flew out from under her. Makwa landed flat on her ass, a shrill crash sounding behind her. Her knee ached. A few people came forward as she slowly registered the beer soaking through her shorts and the toy car rolling away from her.

That fucking kid.

“You okay?” The man stooped in front of her, reaching out with one hand.

There was a screech. Makwa scooted back, eyes fixed on him. His fingers only brushed her shoulder, but it felt like a burn. That heat shot to her hands next, and it took her a second to realize she was leaning on broken glass.

A modest crowd had gathered by then. Makwa shot upright despite the pain, took one second to check her knee—nothing out of place—and darted past them. There was a first aid kid in the back. Not that it did her much good. She fumbled with the latch, hissing. It kept slipping between her bloody fingers.

Someone was behind her.

She jumped back to see Grace, who took it as an invitation to open the kit herself. Makwa gave up and slumped against the wall. The pain wasn’t bad, but it was still _too much_. Hill was nowhere to be seen. Probably apologizing to that fucking asshole.

When Grace reached for her hands, it took everything she had not to pull away. The girl was gentle, but the contact couldn’t end soon enough. Makwa kept her eyes shut.

“We’ve got each other’s backs, remember?” Grace said quietly.

* * *

Back on the floor, one server had drawn the short straw and was sweeping up the glass with a hand broom. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but what was there looked so bright against the laminate. The brush bristles left red tracks behind them, drawing hypnotizing patterns with every movement.

“Um… Can I get you anything else?”

He hadn’t realized he was staring. He chuckled. “_Nein_, thank you,” he said, turning back towards the bartender. “Just the bill is fine.” He gave her a bright smile, and she nodded, returning it nervously as she looked at the scene behind him. Cute.

By the time he turned back, the unlucky server had switched to a mop. It wasn’t long before the mess was cleaned and sterilized, as if nothing ever happened. Soon, the manager dragged the waitress back out. Poor thing. She was apologizing, but didn’t look too happy about it. Her fingers picked at the bandaids covering her hands.

What a lucky day he’d picked to come! It wasn’t his favourite place to drink; the usual crowd wasn’t really his type. But he never turned his nose up at dinner and a show.


End file.
